The Child
by icey.summer02
Summary: "What was your mothers name?" Sherlock says after a moment. "Irene. Irene Adler." And that was when the bomb went off. x - Irene has been killed and now someone, or something, is haunting her child. And Sherlock is going to have to think fast because time is, quite literally, running out.-
1. Chapter 1

**Note: I own nothing, All rights go to the respective owners**

**Chapter 1**

"Adler. My name is Thomas Adler. It's a pleasure to meet you Mr Holmes." The voice is so unexpectedly smooth as well formed, not to mention the adult air to the speech. The only hint that the words have infact been spoken by a six year old is the slight lisp that cropped up when he said his name.

"Well Thomas, It's very nice to meet you too. I trust you understand the situation Thomas?"

"Yes, of course sir." Sherlock is unperturbed by the mature nature of the remarkable child. He has dealt with much odder clients, and, to be frank, it is a blessed relief to work with someone of some intelligence for once, even if it _was_ a 6 year old.

"Yes, of course you do" Sherlock mumbles "Thomas, can you tell me what you know, It is very important I you tell me absolutely everything.

The boy pauses for a moment, considering what he is going to say before proceeding. Sherlock observes that he closes his eyes as he speaks

"I was brought up in Russia. When I was old enough to walk, talk and feed myself I was placed in an institute. It was run by a man, a headmaster of sorts. We had daily lessons, reading, writing, arithmetic etcetera, from seven in the morning until six at night. They said they were training us to be the best we possibly could be. We lived in that building, it was cold, gray and very very focused. The only other contact we came in with was the morning paper, although only a select few articles, and a once a week meeting with our parents. They came, for ten minutes each Sunday to talk with us. There was always a man in the room. My mother came. She always came, never stayed long and never did anything but idle small talk, but she always came. She was never late until then. One day, four weeks ago yesterday, I sat arrived, strictly on time, as was our fashion, but she wasn't there. When she did turn up she was all pink around the edges sir. She stayed even shorter than normal and didn't speak, just looked and looked, her eyes kept darting around, like she was suspicious of something. Then, when she went to leave she hugged me – she never normally hugged me – and whispered something in my ear. That was the last time I saw her before she died."

Sherlock blinks a few times, processing the information Thomas has given him to work with and then speaks.

"What did she say? What did she whisper to you when she left?"

"She whispered 'Sherlock' sir. She said your name. Nothing else. Just your name sir." Then Thomas looks directly at Sherlock with piercing blue eyes and asks "Mr Holmes, will you find out what happened to my mummy?" Just like that. Innocent until proven guilty, what had this boy done to deserve this Sherlock thinks, and for some unexplainable the human thinking machines heart takes a moment to leap out of position and lodge it's self in his throat.

When Sherlock doesn't reply Thomas looks away, at the floor, in case he said something wrong.

"Thomas, What was your mothers name?" Sherlock says after a moment.

"Irene. Irene Marlene Adler."

And that was when the bomb went off.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Reviews make me want to write more… ! x_


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for reading and for the follows:) Also big thank you Lunalovely97 for your review. Here is chapter 2:**  
**I don't own Sherlock All rights go to respective owners.**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Mr Holmes can you here me? Holmes?" sounds floating around his head. But his eyes are too heavy to open to see the source. Then a new voice comes into the equation, John's voice.

"SHERLOCK! My God! Sherlock? Let me through, please! Oh God Sherlock!" And this time Sherlock forces his eyes to open just enough to see the figure of John weaving it's way toward him, eyes always locked on him. And then the world goes blank again.

A dull wiring of a monitor, the gentle beeping of it, fuzzy noises in the background.

"Sir? Sir, Mr Holmes can you here me? Sir you need to wake up now, you have a visitor."

Sherlock tries to open his eyes. But his eye lids are so heavy. Perhaps a few more minuets sleep can help. He sinks back onto the bed, un aware that he had tensed.

"No, Sir, you need to wake up." The feel of something cold on his skin forces Sherlock back to the present. He groans quietly but apparently the nurse has good hearing.

"That's it sir, stay with us now, don't let go." Then to someone else " He's back with us Mandy, struggling to hold on but he's back." Sherlock thinks he can hear a faint sigh of relief.

"Now sir, can you see me?" And he can, Sherlock has opened his eyes and is glancing quickly around. It takes him a few moments to work it out, the nurse is still talking in the background but Sherlock is focused on deducing what happened.

Hospital. He's in a hospital. No screens, no other patients, private, or very serious. Heart monitor, serious it is then. The nurse said he was back with them, he must have been somewhere else then. The edge perhaps. But why? And then he sees the burn on his left hand, the deep pink line across his wrist where the glass flew past and into him. And then it comes back to him, all in a rush;

The boy, he was questioning a boy he tries to remember the name but before he has time to think the memory is rushed on, to make room for the next. An explosion, glass, brick flying. Throwing his body over the child, getting him down and landing on top not long after. The feeling of slipping, slipping away. John, john's worries face winding toward him. Drifting on and out of consciousness in the ambulance. Chaos, people, injuries. And nothing.

Sherlock remains still for some time. Digesting the memories. And somewhere in him he knows he should be in shock. Perhaps he is.

Gradually the nurse's voice fades back in

"Sir? Is everything alright sir?"

"Umm.. yes… sorry, thinking." Sherlock says distractedly shaking his head slightly as if to free himself from the thoughts. "How long have I been here?" His voice is raw and scrapes at his throat.

"6 days sir. Umm… Sir, you have a visitor he's been waiting all afternoon, but I can tell him that now's not good if you want?"

Sherlock's brows furrow "Yes, send him in."

A few minutes later the nurse returns with an awkward Lestrade in tow. And Sherlock can't help the odd feeling in his stomach because it isn't John. Even if he is a sociopath.

Lestrade presents Sherlock with a small bunch of flowers which the nurse puts in a vase because Sherlock is in no state to move. With the flowers can another thing but Sherlock didn't quite catch what it was.

The men make idle talk, or as much as one can with Sherlock, let alone an incapacitated Sherlock who was already getting board.

Before Lestrade leaves he promises Sherlock than when he is deemed well enough he will bring some cold cases for him.

Sherlock can deduce that Lestrade wanted to ask him about the boy, and the bomb. But he didn't. People are always far too careful about others feelings Sherlock thinks. He would quite liked if Lestrade had asked, he has already begun formulating some theories.

* * *

_Thanks again for reading. :) Reviews will make my day and seriously give me more motivation. Even if you just review like one word. Or less. Please? x_


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry about the frankly appalling gap between updates! But I have been busy and I've had no internet for about a month… L anyhoo it's here now and it's a nice long one to make up for it… Enjoy and please let me know what you think… xx**

* * *

**_Chapter 3_**

As promised Lestrade brings Sherlock an entire folder of cold cases but these only manage to satisfy Sherlock's boredom for about an hour and before long he is back to searching his mind palace for answers to the 'real' case. Instead of curbing his boredom though this only aggravates him further. He wished he has more information to work with, Sherlock likes a challenge but this little information is proving it near impossible for even him to solve. He needs to run tests, question people, survey the scene – at this he near has a panic attack every time he thinks of what Anderson and his team may be doing to his precious evidence – and, most importantly Sherlock needs to speak to the boy again. But instead he is bed bound in this darned hospital, with only the company of nurses (who he would rather would just go away) and the damned beeping monitor always in the back ground, taunting him, reminding him that he can't just get up and walk away. Mycroft did have Sherlock quickly transferred to an even posher, more private part of the already best class hospital in London, and probably the United Kingdom. Small mercies Sherlock thinks.

Sometimes he wonders what happened to John, and when he does he can't help the small pang deep inside his chest. His logical brain tells him that John is probably preoccupied to visit him, perhaps even hurt himself. He tells himself that it doesn't matter anyway. But he has a feeling that John is the only thing that could keep him sain in a place like this, and Sherlock's brain is already starting to go slightly mushy without his blogger. Or perhaps that is just a result of his head injury.

Sherlock doesn't really know what is wrong with him. He doesn't really care, he could deduce it if he wanted to, after all he doesn't really keep John around because of his medical knowledge. But in truth Sherlock doesn't give a toss about what's keeping him here, just that it will hurry up and go away. He is physically itching to move, run, deduce, anything to stop the boredom, unused adrenaline rushes around his veins not knowing what to do with it's self. Sherlock can't remember a time he has had to stay still for so long.

On the 10th day Sherlock has a visitor. Lestrade comes in first and, having seen him Sherlock continues reading and ignores him. Lestrade seemed to have made it his official duty to check up on Sherlock twice a day. Sherlock continues reading until a familiar voice says his name.

"Sherlock?"

"John?" Sherlock struggles to stifle the gasp of disbelief and joy. He shifts his position so he can see better. Lestrade is already heading out of the room.

"Sherlock." John has his hand in a bandage and Sherlock can see scars already forming on his cheek. He also has dark rings around his eyes and looks like he hasn't slept in a week. They sit in an awkward silence for a while before John, somewhat hesitantly tries to light a conversation. He shakes his head in disbelief. "How have they kept you here so long? I though you would have begged to be let out days ago?"

"I tried. I blame my brother. Also escaping proved unsuccessful when I can't stand or breath properly without this machine." The silence resumes. "John have you-? Did-?". Defiantly brain damage, he shouldn't be cautious around John like this. Sherlock takes a breath and stats again "The child, what happened to him? Have you seen him?"

"No. He was taken in the ambulance after you but his injuries weren't serious, you took the majority of the blow since you were shielding him. It's in the news you know, Mycroft tried but nothing can be kept from the press for too long." John pauses "Sherlock-Was the child- Do you think the child's…?"

"Yes."

"But she…?"

"I know."

"It's not…?"

"It's not what?"

"It's not… _yours_? Is it?"

"I hope not. But I wouldn't put anything past that woman."

"But how can she…?"

"You tell me. But the timings are right, even if we never… It's not hard to get hold of DNA John."

"So, to clarify, a boy genius raised in Russia is a child of _The _Irene Adler, the one we dealt with, and was supposedly dead, and the child may or may not also be yours even if you and her never…"

"Yes."

"Ok." John takes another deep breath "What happens now?"  
"I get out of this hospital and then we get back on course to solve this case, naturally. In the meantime I need evidence, photos of everything – check the cupboards for unusual substances – and I need to see Thomas again. We may have to make a trip to Russia but for now I'm stuck here and precious time is being wasted." A short pause ensued whilst Sherlock watched John expectantly, when the latter didn't respond Sherlock sighed "Well? I need to speak to the boy, go find him and speak to Lestrade about photographing the scene!"

John stands, trying his hardest not to be angry. Typical Sherlock, acting as if this was all just a minor inconvenience. It strikes John that Sherlock might not know the extent of his injuries. But John does, and he knows that it's not just a minor inconvenience.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are like being woken up to a steaming cup of tea on your favourite day of the week… J xx_


End file.
